


What is your Name, Icarus?

by Demus



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Brainwashing, M/M, No Fluff, Project Blackwing (Dirk Gently), Psychic Abilities, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9594791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demus/pseuds/Demus
Summary: It's always a question, always the same question, always asked as the bruises bloom beneath his skin, always asked when he is stretched to breaking point, because if he will not be theirs willingly then they will not have him at all.What happens after the abduction, told in snapshots. Dirk!whump, please see warnings.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dirk!whump, because I have been re-reading '1984', and as much as I love Samuel Barnett, he is from Yorkshire and must be punished. /Lancastrian

“What is your name?”  
  
Through gritted teeth, as though he could even remember the feeling of teeth without pressure, “Dirk Gently.”  
  
A whine, a low whirring whine like a dentist’s drill coming to life, the crackle of plastic, a chemical scent. DIrk flinched at a cold, sudden touch to his forehead, mildly abrasive as it scrubbed him clean from eyebrow to hairline. “What is your name?”  
  
“Dirk. Gently. I’m a detective, I’m a really good detective, I could probably even find some goodness in you if you just gave me the chance and at least four teasp-”  
  
Pressure at the top of his brow, stretching out the skin, the weird ghost warmth of someone bending over him, the drill-whine lurching closer, closer, the grasping pinch of the first of many needles.  
  
“No, wait, wh- what are you-”  
  
The needles withdrew, replaced by smooth, rubber-coated fingers. “There’s a legend about psychics-”  
  
“I’m not-”  
  
A fist, swift to solar plexus, silenced him. He choked on the pain, unable to bend, straining against the leather belts that pinned him wide open. “A legend that states,” the voice continued, as though he had never interrupted, “that those who reach under the skin of the universe have something that helps them, an extra organ that allows them to...see.”  
  
Dread, colder than the needles returning to his forehead, fear almost as bright as the glare of the lights because he knew what they were going to do; intuition, oh hated intuition, he _knew_ the red glisten beneath the peeled-back skin of the universe and oh, they were going to brand him like a medieval cabbage thief.  
  
“An eye for an eye, Icarus,” the voice crooned, over the scitter-screech of the machine. “An eye for an eye for an eye.”  
  
  
*  
  
  
The tattoo - his new third eye - stung, a constant throb of violated skin. The previous week of blinding headaches made sense now, seven days‘ worth of branding delivered early, delivered in the middle of his first _last_ case.  
  
If only he could blink it closed.  
  
Really, honestly, it was nothing compared to the other pains, the dislocated shoulders, the lattice-work of razor blade cuts, the cracked ribs, the raw flesh of his thighs, his arse, his back. Physical pain was the tenderiser, old and familiar, softening him to swollen ugly purples and blues. Easy to find veins when they were blackened and ruptured, easy to scratch the drugs into his meat and tip his mind to madness.  
  
Always the question. Always the question that sought a voluntary submission, that waited for him to surrender, to become the thing they wanted. To become Icarus, to leave Dirk Gently a foolish, foppish memory stumbling clumsily into the dust of history, whilst Icarus soared sunwards with wax dripping through his feathers.  
  
Wow. It must be the good stuff they had him on. That was almost poetic.  
  
  
*  
  
“Icarus?”  
  
For a long, long moment, he didn't know the voice, although the cadence jerked his nerves to spasm, then-  
  
“Icarus? Is that-” the tone turned breathless, wondering, then, through the ever-present dizziness, he felt a hand touch his cheek. His flinch was automatic, but the hand remained soft on his skin, small calloused fingers, bird bones, tracing the new sharpness of his face, the curve of his new eye. “What have they done to you?”  
  
_Todd._ He blinked his eyes open but the light was too bright, then he felt rather than heard the creak of his throat, like the agonised protest of ancient iron, and fingers touched his lips, shushed him so gently. There was a scent he knew, salted-earth-smoke-denim, _Todd_ , Todd was here, Todd had found him…  
  
“Icarus?” Todd said again. His body was warm, so warm, so close, and he strained helplessly towards the warmth, the smell, the uncertain kindness. The straps cut into his skin, the cruelty of it so ordinary that he didn’t spare it a thought, he wanted, he needed-  
  
But the universe hadn’t laid this growing trail. He knew, he always knew, deep in his bones, in his treacherous, seething marrow, in the blood and viscera he knew that this was not what the universe intended.  
  
“No,” he heard his voice say, though his tongue strained in protest, his cut lips desperate  to close on the words before they were uttered. “No, not- Not, not Ic- Icar- You’re not-”  
  
The hand on his cheek paused its ministrations. He heard a breath, felt the animal intimacy of its wetness on his skin, then the fingers pat-pat-patted. “Clever Icarus,” a voice said, not Todd’s voice, not any more, just a pale, awful imitation. “Clever psychic. What is your name?”  
  
“D- Dirk-”  
  
_Smack._  
  
“What is your name?” Despite the violence of the blow, the voice was bored. It had lost all wonder, all trace of care or concern. “Tell me, Icarus. Tell me what your name is.”  
  
He set his teeth, deliberately pushed his forehead into the cruel touch, let the pain ground him in the midst of despair. “I am Dirk Gently.”  
  
Lips against his, thin dry lips that were chapped in exactly the same places, lips so hesitant like _his_ , Dirk couldn’t help the quivered bloom of his heart in his chest, _Todd_ , then the lips pressed firmer, teeth biting, biting into already-bloodied flesh.  
  
“Nearly, darling,” said the voice that was not Todd. “Nearly there now."  
  
  
*  
  
  
“One word, child,” the voice said, so tenderly. “One word, and it will all be over.”  
  
His eyes burned with salt, salt with no moisture, he did not have water enough to cry, and the pressure inside him shifted, dragging against overstimulated nerves, too much too much too much-  
  
“What is your name, my love?”  
  
He gulped, and gulped, no air in his lungs, no sight in his eyes, nothing left but the pain at the centre of his forehead and that awful awful pressure deep deep inside.  
  
Fingertips on his stomach, slipping through wetness, fingertips that found his shame, measured it lingeringly, with medical precision. “Say it, sweetness. Say it.”  
  
He sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.  
  
And broke.  
  
“Icarus.”  
  
“What is your name?”  
  
“Icarus.”  
  
“What is your name?”  
  
“Icarus!” he screamed, thrashing against his bonds, against the intrusion, against the impersonal fingers. “Icarus! Icarus, I’m Icarus!”  
  
A pushing, a tightening, then he jerked, howling his completion, wet-spatter, his degradation finally complete.  
  
“Good boy. Now we can begin.”


End file.
